Act 2 of Wellington opens a whole lot better than act 1 ended (remember ferry tickets and internet cafes with broken clocks? The boys certainly do), and we check ourselves into a hostel with less skank than before. Well, all of it’s nice apart from the choice of rooms they offer to Lou and I: when we complain about the first ice-box they give us a room decorated a la Scarface with blood red walls, lovely. While El Goatus and the gobshite battle their fearsome vocabularies over a scrabble board (I even hear that a four-letter word crept in there at one point, probably f*** from the Goatman), we wonder down through the city and find a Cambodian restaurant for a bit of romantic tucker and a few bottles of red.

Seeing as Wellington has already been exposed to the Travelling Hullites Cultural Exploration package, we decide to head for Taupo (also act 2 due to some unfulfilled bungee promises, gulp!) asap. Due to some prime fannying from the car company (I guess that Binnus has been this way then) we don’t find ourselves at ACE Rentals until the afternoon. While we’re expectantly gazing at roomy Nissan Bluebirds and fighting over what the first tape will be on the boom box, the creak of old and weary metal diverts our attention to the assistant who is gingerly driving out our car. ‘Features’ include one radio, AM only; one 5mm speaker located in radio unit, sound output not distinguishable to the human ear; four tyres; one moped engine. We head out and turn north in the pouring rain, an uneventful journey apart from the boys finally making it seven international Maccy’s in a row. Go Ronald!! Unfortunately, Shaggy’s place is booked out by the time we reach Taupo (“Like, yoiks Scoob!!”) but we get a room in the Rainbow Lodge instead, complete with in-house sauna. Sweaty!

Sunday. A day of rest, relaxation and falling off gorges. Yes, D-day is finally here and Lou and I are soon watching the Taupo Bungee in action, certain death staved off only by a piece of elastic and the diligence of the YTS kid manning the equipment. It really is picturesque. The platform stands out over the sheer sides of the gorge with the river 47m below which I’m sure would have been so much more breathtaking if I wasn’t continually worrying about the accuracy of the company’s scales. Jumping is not all that difficult (if you don’t fall you will be pushed) and it’s over so quickly that all you really remember is the adrenaline rush afterwards – oh, and for everyone else the ringing in your ears from Lou’s scream! An incredible experience for sure, for sure (to quote Mr Boi).

With Lou and I still shaking a bit we set off for Rotorua, centre of Maori culture for tourists and chock full of geothermal activity for the easily bored. Seeing as it’s still pretty early by the time we’re almost at the town, we decide to stop and explore one of the many brown tourist signs that point off down side roads. After only a couple of u-turns (outback signposting) we come across a complex with naturally heated spring baths and even more excitingly a golf course carved into the side of a mountain. Lou decides to soak the entire time, I embarrass myself in front of a few amused sheep for 9 holes and Little Dave and the Goat play the full 18, joining us in the pools once the Goatman has finished reminding Dave who won. Dry and clean, we go into Rotorua looking for somewhere to stay fit for the king. What we find instead is Cactus Jack’s, a completely bizarre Mexican-themed hostel with the outside courtyard done up as an old-west town complete with bank, store and old-man’s veranda. Definitely worth a look if you’re in the area if only for the ‘but why…?’ factor. That night is that old New Zealand favourite of ours: internet, tea and bed.

Now while Cactus Jacks is a cool place, I don’t think that we’d quite appreciated the bizarre factor of opening our doors on Monday to a wild west town. In New Zealand. In the winter. Still, you have to give the designers credit for creating that eerie atmosphere of a ghost town by having no paying customers – genius! We decide that today we’re going to get all sweaty and visit Hells Gate thermal reserve (chosen over the cheaper Rotorua Springs Thermal Park because, well, it’s got a harder name). Dave moans about the cost and decides to get a half-day ticket before we arrive, but then laziness triumphs yet again and he stumps up for the full price. The makers of the Hells Gate park have gone for a cunning apocalyptic-wasteland-come-barren-lunar-landscape with mother-nature-as-all-poweful-tempremental-goddess vibe which reels in impressionable suckers like us effortlessly. The only problem is that, well, mostly it’s not and some of the features are described with such hyperbole (“SEE THE ACTIVE MUD VOLCANOE!”) that when you actually clasp eyes on it (a fine, fine example of a bubbling cowpat) you can’t help but be disappointed. That’s not to say that it’s not entertaining though and pools of boiling water shaped like, err, Australia (well, to a monged-out Shaggy from Taupo maybe), a terrifying encounter with an enraged peacock on a bridge and the obligatory nipple-tweaking session from you-know-who justifies the expense.

Where the real fun begins is back at the entrance though because within moments we’ve stripped down to swim gear and we’re smearing therapeutic Rotoruan mud all over ourselves in the 30 degree mud pool. Therapeutic as long as the stuff doesn’t go above your nose anyway – if it does you go blind, charming! After 20 mins of Arn-hold in Predator-style macho combat painting, the assistant takes great and obvious pleasure in hosing us down in ice cold water to wash off the mud (thank god I don’t wear revealing trunks, that’s all I can say) before we get to jump into the natural hot spring pools and soak until we’re as wrinkly as a Keenan. We drive back to town, a journey notable for the Goatman getting us lost and a sterling effort from myself in guiding us back. Just wanted to mention that. The rest of the night is dedicated to the simple pleasures of eating and watching ‘LA Confidential’ in the hostel’s atmospherically saloon bar vid room. It’s like Clint’s about to come riding in at any moment, genius!

When Lou and I wake up on Tuesday, freezing (the hostel has – genius! – cut costs by replacing the radiator in our room with a single hot water pipe, just like in A Fistfull of Dollars), it’s to the news that the Goatman is in so much pain he will not be joining us out today. I wonder what it is? A particularly viscious night nipple attack by Little Dave? Self-harm brought on by the trauma of being separated from Binnus for so long? Nope, his eye is stinging. The big barning nonce. We leave the Goatman to his pain, jump in our geriatric beast of a motor and rattle our way out of town to the Maori Arts and Crafts institute.

We kick off with a tour around the institute’s Maori Crafts workshop where young, skilled Maoris are learning the wood and jade carving skills of their ancestors and gaining a qualification at the same time. Sorry Tamworth College, no contest really. Unfortunately, most of our attention is on our guide who bares an uncanny resemblance to Hull Uni radio’s diminutive, ginger bearded annoyance, M-m-m-mike B-b-brown. Frankly, it’s enough to put you off Maori crafts for life. Now the grounds of your normal cultural centre should consist of grass, flowers, maybe a few judiciously planted shrubs. This being Roatorua though we are loaded on board a van and taken past awesome geysers, smoke holes and the obligatory bubbling cowpat. Finally they put on a traditional Maori greeting ceremony. This comes complete with old women banging balls of knitting wool around in time to music played by a warrior on a traditional Maori guitar (made by Gibson USA – these ancient Maoris get everywhere!) and lots of warriors stamping feet and sticking out tongues – an intimidation tactic that sounds a bit chuckle brothers until you’re confronted by a guy who could steamroller a tag team of Jonah Lomu and Big Daddy. Lou gets her piccy taken with a hard warrior with huge muscles (what’s the difference from the rest of our photos?) and the Little Man and myself stick my hat respectfully on one of the idols. What more could you want from your money? Heading back into town, we meet up with Goatus who, with his all-encompassing remedy of ‘sleep’, is feeling better. We spend the remainder of the afternoon shopping for nik-naks and visiting internet cafes in between sticking money into the parking meter because some piece of walking barnery has nicked our free spot. Our last night in Cactus Jack’s is, as usual, an orgy of wild west atmospherics - chicken stir-fry and Gary Oldman hamming it up in ‘Air Force 1’. Back to the ranch ya damn varmit, yeee-ha!

The harsh, cold morning sun rises and dawn spreads her misty vale over the land as wednesday begins. Well probably, but by the time we wake up at midday it is pashing it down and it’s time to finally leave Rotorua. Wishing The Hostel With No Name a ‘so long paardner’ we set out for Waitomo, one of only two places in New Zealand that you can indulge in ‘black water rafting’. This viscious-sounding sport involves tooling up like a gimp in drysuits and floating through underground streams gazing at glow-worms with a tractor’s inner-tube wedged onto your arse. Before all of this though we have to find our chosen cheapo accomodation. Heading out past town we hit the countryside. Beyond that we pass a guy with one too many fingers playing a banjo. Beyond that (just short of the amazon rainforest and with a couple of nasty sounding bumps from the [long since] dirt road underneath), we finally arrive. Christ, it’s Little House on the Prairie! We chuck our bags inside and say hello to John-Boy the landlord then dive straight back into the car, knacker the underside on the same bumps in the track again and head to the caves.

First challenge is the gear. Honestly, I’ve never had to put on so much stuff, even a goat would struggle to find purchase for a tweak! As well as mattress-thick wetsuits we get splash jackets, lifejackets, helmets with pathetically torches that switch off if you cough and a pair of Wilt Chamberlain’s basketball shorts circa 1950 to protect the derriere of our wetsuits. In our group for this little excursion to the depths of the earth are a couple of American ladies Leslie and Dawn, a Belgian dude Renee and his nobbing/travelling German partner and our guide Porridge (looks like he’s had a bit too much of it too). Nearby the entrance to the caves, wild-eyed pie-muncher Porridge gets us to choose our tractor tyres and runs us through the activities we’ll be doing while underground. Obviously what he means is spend twenty minutes fooling around and drenching your mates so we oblige, cumulating in us trying to pull an unobliging goat off a ladder which he’s stuck to like a limpet.

One quick trek up the hill later and we’re all standing in front of an absurdly small opening which we squeeze through and switch on the torches to find ourselves next to an underground stream rushing into the blackness – not for the claustrophobic that’s for sure. The next twenty minutes is wicked as we crawl along ledges, wade through rushing streams and float past jagged rocks, mostly in utter darkness. The only problem is that by the time we stop and gather at an underground waterfall the Little Man is still with us, shame but it’s difficult to lose a man who talks that much. Porridge does a blinding little trick where he jumps into a little 4ft hole under the stream and holds his breath – but for us it looks like he’s fallen down the waterfall! He reckons that at some point he’ll have another instructor hiding there with a secondary air source and he’ll jump out instead of Porridge and continue without a word - but I think big-boned Porridge and someone else in one little hole, no way. Next our in-depth SAS-style training session earlier comes in handy as we have to jump off the waterfall backwards into the dark. “Watch out” Porridge adds helpfully “there’s a bloody big rock down there somewhere!”. We finish what has been an amazing couple of hours in true style. Floating with our lights off, we let the current carry us as we gaze upwards at thousands and thousands of glow-worms spanning the rock ceiling like a green galaxy. It’s an awe-inspiring and humbling sight and would be worth the fee on its own without the caving highjinks.

Back at the activity centre, the jacuzzi is switched on for us and we soak and chat to Porridge (about almost getting fired for drinking in the jacuzzi – “Really? Your round then!”), the American ladies (who offer us a room in Oakland that we stupidly fail to take up in a month’s time) and Renee (who recommends a hostel in Auckland for us to stay in.....but I’ll return to this tomorrow!). With a suffering rattle from the car we head back into the New Zealand outback (‘where men are men and sheep are nervous!’) to the hostel and a curry while watching, suitably, East is East. We’ve been to India, we know the score.

The next day is our second to last full day in New Zealand (boo) before we leave for Fiji (oh yes mama). We have breakfast and leave the landlord to get back in touch with nature as we set off towards Auckland and our flight. Sole stop-off is the nowheresvile town of Hamilton, domain of tourist information booths that are designed not to be found and expensive parking meters. Why are we visiting this little slice of Kiwi suburbia you may ask, well it’s quite simple. The Little Man is attempting to better his chances with Nicole (who comes from Hamilton, Monatana) in a few weeks time by buying her a ‘Hamilton’ fridge magnet. See, romance isn’t dead it’s just been done over and left in a ditch.

A few hours later and we find ourselves pulling into Auckland in our trusty nag’s penultimate journey. Aftert a brief search (I was not lost Dave!) we find Down Under Hostel that Renee recommended to us yesterday. Christ almighty what a s***hole!! It’s bad enough that the kitchen is some kind of New Zealand Army bacterial research lab, the double room is freezing and the dorm bed clothes look like they’ve been soaked in the Ganges. But they also have a cat! A bloody cat!! Did they know I was coming? Never trust a Belgian, they’re a very goatish nation! We take the car back to the shop and give it a tearful farewell then book ourselves into the much better Central City Hostel closer to town for tomorrow night. For tea it’s a quick meal of spaghetti bolognese bravely cooked in the hostel kitchen then us boys take a trip to the cinema to watch the ironically sleep-inducing ‘Insomnia’ while Lou decides that it’s not her particular flavour of vodka so stays in.

The next morning, our last full day in New Zealand, we give Down Under Hostel two fingers and drag our bags the half-mile up the hill to the new place. While stuffing some food down our gobs in the kitchen someone decides to be clever and start to organise what we’re doing in Fiji – yes, yes, I know, it doesn’t sound very likely but there we are. I end up ringing the ‘White House Hotel’ in Nadi (pronounced ‘Nandey’) to book our stay tomorrow night and we leave the rest until we arrive – now that’s more like it! Main job of the day for me is to get my ticket sorted out which (although I’ve now had it for about 9 months) I’ve just noticed is for a different flight than everyone else’s! Having had it amended in the Air NZ office by the sophisticated method of tippexing out the flight number and writing in a new one, we all spend a lot of time on the internet then celebrate our last night in a suitable fashion by eating burgers and watching Road Trip on telly. Again. Wait, hang on, there is one last footnote. With Binnus already long since departed it’s up to all of us in chorus to utter the famous line. Altogether now: “I can’t believe that this time tomorrow we’ll be in a different country!”.

Well it’s been a rollercoaster ride on water, underground, in the air and on the mini-golf pitch if not at night but finally it’s time to leave. Our transfer drops us off at the airport one Binnus down than when we arrived (let the attrition begin!) then it’s a few last minute postcards before we board. So, it’s farewell to the adventure sports capital of the world, to the most diverse range of environments I’ve ever seen in one country and to a nation that’s certainly not the 9th Australian State (see, even me and my stereotyping learned something). It may only have Shortland Street back home, but New Zealand we salute you!

Honestly, I remember so little of this because it's so long ago now that I might as well make it up! So, we parted the Cook Straights and walked across to the South Island, right......

The ferry crossing was, I'm sure, beautiful with stunning mountains and vistas. Lou and I didn't notice this however for two reasons: 1) It was dark (always a stumbling block) and 2) We were still busy sucking up to the others for our marvellous performance with the tickets. We finally pull into Picton, gateway to the South Island, and get collered by the bloke from Picton Lodge which turns out to be a good start to the South Island hostels with a tv, good kitchen and other such stuff that U.S. hostels have never heard of (wooah, gettin' way ahead of myself there!). We take a quick glance around Picton which takes all of five minutes (it's small but quaint and likeable), eat and get some shuteye.

Friday morning, and our ever so helpful scouse bloke from Wellington comes up trumps with the Subaru that he booked for us. Unfortunately, while we definitely have the car booked, it happens to be just outside of Christchurch at this very moment being driven north up to us at top speed. This means that we have a wait until the early afternoon on our hands, so we take a step outside of reality and try to arrange a car to take us from Queenstown back to here in a weeks time. After fruitlessly trying all the usual suspects, an unlikely saviour comes in the form of our landlord who manages to book us a station wagon with the very dubiously titled 'Shoestring Rentals'. Ok, so a car with a working engine, a chassis and other such peripherals would have been preferable but disorganised beggars can't be choosers. Binnus on the other hand (who is of course leaving us in Queenstown and heading back to Auckland for his flight home at top speed) is stuck in a bit of a quagmire. All the smaller afforable cars are booked out, and half the agencies won't even touch him, not because of his feet this time but because he only wants a car for three or four days. Giving up until Queenstown, we pile into our sporty 4x4 Subaru Legacy and goooooo weeesssstt!!

The car is a dream and the scenery is stunning as we make our way towards Westport on the west coast - snow-capped mountains in the distance, vineyards in the foreground and great tunes on the stereo. It's like starring in a bloody Peugeot advert! It's while winding our way through a section of twisty road that we end up stuck behind a minibus full of 15 (at the most!) year old girls, and muggins here at the wheel returns one of their constant waves. Next thing we know there's a full stripping session going on with bras and boobs being flashed at us out of the back window! What a collection of slappers! We finally overtake, but only after Lou has offered strict instructions for me to keep my eyes on the road, and the Goatman has come to the conclusion that twisting around and getting his arse out in reply is, in fact, physically impossible. Arriving at Westport, location of one of only two black-water rafting sites in the country and not a lot else, we check into a cavernous old mansion of a hostel run by a South African dude, cook and watch 'Goooood Mooorning Viieeetnaaaam' (the soundtrack to which has provided much of today's listening so we all know the quotes of by heart......even six months later!).

Clustered around a table the next (very, very chilly) morning we decide to leave the black water rafting until we get back to the North Island and use our extra time to go up to Arthur's Pass instead, one of only three routes that cross the massive mountains in the centre of the island (artistic profile looking through the centre of the South Island: _/\_ Good eh?). The S.A. guy books us into his friend's hostel up there and guarantees us snow to piss around in, then we're off. On the way we make a stop at the 'Pancake Rocks' - unfortunately for me not a fried snack covered in sugar and honey but instead a series of compressed coastal rocks that funnel the incoming waves up and out, creating a huge 'whoosh' and spray of saltwater every time a new one comes charging in. Great fun, and probably really geographically interesting as well if one could give an arse about such things. Which we can't.

One swift pie later and we're back on our way south until we decide to take a break again a bit later at a 'beautiful' ((c) local info leaflet) lagoon, which turns out to be quite, quite boring. This does introduce us to a new phenomenon however - a publication other than the Rough Guide providing us with bogus information! After a swift competition of 'who can hit the partially submerged post with a rock' and locking Little inside a nearby cabin for a bit (you could still hear him talking) we move inland up to Arthur's Pass marvelling at the stunning jagged mountain sides and the craziness of the men who built this road going through it all. We arrive in Arthur's Pass and...there're bits of snow everywhere! This is proved incontestably for the first time when we drive past a group of cheeky kids who snowball our car, and again a second time when we turn around for some payback and the Little Man nails one of the scamps with an impressive hook shot over the top of the car at 40 kph! Our hostel starts off as a disaster when the lady in charge tells us that there are no beds, but then goes up into the realms of genius as she instead gives us one of her self-contained cabins for the same price, complete with fire and trivial pursuit!

Before we get started on such elegant slumming however, we take ourselves off for a little walk up to the 'Devil's Punchbowl', a cool waterfall with patches of snow lying all around. Now, as we all know the equation snow + boys = flying bits of ice, it should come as no surprise that the entire mile back to the car was a mammoth snowball fight with Little sniping from the rear and the Goatman trying to repeatedly ambush him in a terrible, transparent and totally unsuccessful manner. Arriving back at the cottage wet and cold, we get the fire going, cook and play outdated Trivial Pursuit, which the Goatman and Binnus spawnily win after getting questions as complex as 'how many legs does the average human have?' while the rest of us are stuck trying to figure out who Irene Mablesthwaite played in Crossroads circa 1983.

Damn the rain quite frankly! We had high hopes the next day of taking a walk above the snowline and spending another night in the cabin but the hammering moisture outside persuades us otherwise. So with a brief backing into a tree by Lou as a farewell present (no harm done) we take our leave and head back to the coast. Most of that day is spent driving down to Franz Josef, location of the Franz Josef Glacier (it's all in the name) and, we find out, a really wicked hostel with a hot tub, nice rooms, a massive video selection and a pool table. Once we've booked ourselves onto the full-day glacier climbing trip for the morning we watch a few vids and then hit the hay (amendment: we do, Binnus on the other hand opts to stay up until 3am, regardless of our looming 7am start, to watch Liverpool crash out of the Charity Shield to Arsenal. Inside, my heart is weeping).

By 9am the next day, we're standing in the building of the glacier tour operator peering resentfully at the rain, which is still pelting down cheerfully. Git. We're kitted up in pretty extreme fashion, with waterproof tops & bottoms, gloves, ice axes and mean boots with metal spikes on the bottom. What are we getting ourselves into here?! After a short drive we get our first look at the beast, and it is pretty damn amazing. Stretching miles up the valley to its parent ice field near Mount Cook (highest mountain in New Zealand, and that's saying something believe me), the true power of the glacier is apparent when you see the carnage left behind by it as it retreated over the last century. After a short walk to the start of the ice we pull on our business boots and start the climb. Now, you remember that a sentence or two ago I described us as having 'waterproofs'? Well, I take that back. Within minutes the incessant rain has permeated almost everything, and half an hour later as it moves up a gear to full scale thunderstorm you can remove the 'almost'. Even though the climb is strenuous in parts, the breaks that we have to take while the guides cut us steps from the ice causes everyone to become seriously cold and wet, and hot cups of Ribena are eagerly accepted when we stop in an ice cave for lunch.

After lunch though things improve, with brief breaks in the weather allowing us to get some amazing views over the incredible terrain that we're navigating and the guides taking us through cool little ice formations like potholing-esque caves and massive fissures that you have to shuffle sideways and bend backwards to fit through - not for the claustrophobic! In a massive moral booster too, Little Dave slips over (initial concern) and safely slides down 15 feet on his bum (subsequent amusement). We even manage to get the cameras out a few times without breaking them, and by the time we descend back to the bus the cool bits have way outweighed the rain and we're all pretty happy. Back at the hostel, the other boys enjoy a good soak in the hot tub with two of the girls from our trip and then play drinking games with a group of Taffs (or welsh as they're more commonly known) until bed.

Setting off from Franz Josef in the morning, we point the car in the direction of Queenstown in the (going for some kind of endurance record) pouring rain. We make a quick stop at Fox Glacier (typical, you don't come across a glacier for years then two turn up at once!) for photo opportunities and carry on south. Single arresting incident in this 7 hour drive has to be one infamous rock sitting in the centre of our lane on a blind corner, which the driver (Little) egged on by tool in the back (me) decides that the car will clear and drives straight over. Cue horrible grinding noises underneath our feet. Pulling over, voices are raised and defences offered in one of our few altercations, with the Goatman looking like he's never wanted a tape measure so much in his life. The eventual conclusion is that the only safe way to deal with it would have been to stop, remove the rock and then drive on and, suitably chastised, we agree to be more careful from this point on. Unfortunately though, the incident refuses to resign itself to memory over the last few hours of the journey, with the acceleration decidedly less punchy and a noise akin to a jetfighter on full afterburn emanating from under the car - I think that we put a hole in the exhaust, Miss! Luckily for us and our credit cards, it lasts until we pull into Queenstown late in the afternoon with the rain having miraculously stopped and, even more miraculously, everybody talking to one another again. While the other three guys head for the only dorms available in the town in a hotel across the way, myself and Lou opt for the cosy Bungee Backpackers where the others will join us for tomorrow night.

As its name suggests, Bungee Backpackers has a theme orientated towards adventure sports and a desk from which you can book the Nevis Bungee. Second highest point in the world from which you can throw yourself with only a piece of elastic tied to your feet, I did say to Lou in Taupo that if I didn't do the one there then I'd definitely do this one instead. Me and my mouth, the thing costs $150!! I think that I'll wait until Taupo again, thankee. We head off into town to hand the poorly car back in, praying all the time that the bloke doesn't start it up while we're still there - we scarper without a hitch, success!! Queenstown itself is quite nice, if a little touristy, mainly thanks to the lake that it sits next to and the mountains that surround the other four sides (the place is a big skiing town). In a freak stroke of good fortune, Binnus manages to find himself a car to carry him back to Picton for under the price of his soul so he gets that booked for the day after tomorrow. Our big plan in Queenstown has always been to go white water rafting as this place is the adventure sports capital of New Zealand, and while enquiring in one of the many tour operators' shops we are told that they could still fit us in for this afternoon. Well, the sun's shining and we've got nothing better to do, why not throw ourselves down a torrent of water with only a sheet of inflatable plastic between us and probable death?

In an hour or so’s time we find ourselves kitted up in a complex arrangement of wetsuits, splash covers and lifejackets, grasping a paddle in one hand and trying not to fall over as we work our way downhill towards the river. Probably the most famous river to do this on is the Shotover, however because the track up to that river is impassable in the winter the only way to do it is to pay an excessive amount for a helicopter to take you up. No thanks! Instead we're on the Kauraru river, the day after all that rain finished and boy is it going quickly! We all end up on one raft together with a chappy called Tim for a guide. It actually turns out that the section that we're about to do was used for the canoeing scene in the first 'Lord Of The Rings' film. How does Tim know this? Only because he was the double for Legolas the Elf!! How cool is that? He gets us doing some commands to get us out of trouble and help him to steer - "forwards!", "backwards!", "hold on!", "float there I'll come and get you!" "let's hunt some Orc!" etc etc. Once these are done we float down stream to the first set of mini rapids, attacking the other 3 boats on the way ("not long ago" explains Tim "all four boats flipped over!"), until Tim stops us and gets Lou to put down her paddle and sit right up on the prow of our little raft while we bump over the rapids. Cue the screams, maestro! All of a sudden we're pulling over while the four guides go to check out the condition of the last, and by far the meanest, set of rapids; they return with cheerful comments like "well, it's worse than I've ever seen it, but let's give it a go eh?" and shove us off from the bank. What follows I can't actually recall in any detail, I just have a vivid image of huge troughs and dips of swirling water and us somehow coming out of it upright and grinning like the fools we undoubtedly are. Wahddarush! There only remains the trip back to the lodge, in which we rip the instructor girl for overuse of the word "sweet!" (us: "SWEET!!") and tea and hot dogs, during which Binnus gets talking to a guy about Spiders in Hull, bizarre. We stay in that night, preferring to save up for tomorrow which is - gulp, with a tear in my eye - Binnus' last day with us!

Well, after 7 months together this is it, the four of us together for one last day. How should we see the Big Man off in style? Simple, take him up to a luge track and humiliate him! A cable car takes us from the edges of the town centre up the nearest mountain (including the Goatman after we've drugged his milk - "ain't goin' no cablecar fool!") where there is an observation deck, the obligatory bungee jump and a big luge track. The luge cars are small with one set of handlebars that you steer and pull back to brake on. Once the mini cable-car takes you to the top, you jump on a sled and bomb down the track as fast as you can. After five races the average result was as follows: first, Lou (out to prove something after that tree episode I reckon); second, very close behind, Little (same argument as Lou, substituting a rock for a tree); third, close on the Little Man's heels, the Goatman (somehow beating Binnus for once); fourth (I prefer to think of it as 'not last', or 'lower middle order'), me and stuck on an overturned cart on the big hairpin halfway down the track, Binnus (that's last, by the way). Honestly, four times down the same track, four times off at the same corner - he's nothing if not consistent! After this entertainment, we took some cool photos of Queenstown and the lake below us before heading down.

Binnus had earlier phoned Gerry's (the lady who put us up in New Plymouth) daughter Claire, who resides in these parts, and arranged to meet in the town centre tonight. Finding that we had a bit of extra time on our hands, we decided to try out the nuts-looking crazy golf near the cable car, which looked wicked with automated rockets taking off, little ski-lifts for your golf balls, skills to the max! Disappointingly though, after the first few holes it all got a bit boring - hit your ball arbitrarily into one of three holes, watch some animatronics, have your ball come out dead close or horribly far away from the hole (mostly the latter in my case), wait for the other four to do the same then repeat 17 more times. At least we got a free glass of coke out of it.

After this it's back to the ranch to get changed (and put on makeup in Lou's and the Goatman's case) then head out into town to meet Claire and her fella Dave (yep, another one) who are both really cool and take us to an Indian for some nosh. Post-ruby we hit a few pubs and bars and run into 'Irish', a nutter from our white water trip, before it's kick out time and Binnus gets what he must have known was coming to him, a mass nipple tweaking session on the pavement - standout scene had to be the Goatman on the floor with his torso wrapped around Binnus' legs, Little pinning his arms down while I dived in for an unobstructed, on-the-money viscious twist. Bye bye Binnus, we'll miss you maaaate!

Ok, ok, so it’s been a while. In fact, it has been bloody ages! Those of an easily shockable nature should probably take a lie down as, yes, we have finally done another diary entry!!!

If you were reading all those months ago then you will know that we left Australia and flew across the Tasman sea towards the neighbouring country of New Zealand.

Touching down in Auckland on Thursday evening, the first priority is, as usual, to get Bin Watson through customs without any drama. Despite the best efforts of a trainee sniffer dog which braves the toxic conditions to get within investigating distance of those infamous feet, he manages to get through to arrivals without a full body cavity search and we are able to proceed on towards the hostel.

With not too much of the day remaining and still feeling the effects of last night’s drinking, we settle for a night in of super noodles and TV, live the dream!

Friday, our first full day in Auckland, is mainly taken up with one thing, trying to get out of here! Many plans are considered for how to get around this country over the next month, not to mention where and when to go there. After plenty of phoning around we settle on a car to take us from Auckland down to Wellington over the next few days.

With this sorted and the car ready to be picked up tomorrow, we use what is left of the day to investigate downtown Auckland. Unsuprisingly, there are internet cafes, sports shops and more hostel television in the plan of action for the rest of the day.

A lot of fannying around during the morning proceeds our departure, which finally takes place early in the am after we have picked up our new motor and set a course south towards Taupo. The Toyota Corrola estate that has the pleasure of carting us around for the next few days shows a distinct aversion to up hill slopes when loaded with the five of us and full kit! After an uneventful journey (Kiwis, like the Aussies and the British, drive on the left hand side of the road!), we arrive on the shores of Lake Taupo in the early evening to find that there is a serious lack of available accommodation. Eventually, we stumble across one slightly out of the way gaff that can put us up for the next two nights. The next challenge of the day for each of us is to avoid eye contact with any other set of eyes in our group while in the reception area and the inevitable hysterics that would follow due to the very shaggy-esq nature of the clearly stoned guy on the front desk....hey Scoob...yoinks!

Sunday morning is spent at the nearby 'Craters Of The Moon', part of the North Island's thermal region. We wander through the area sticking to the path as jets of steam pour out of vents in the earth around us. From there it is time for some action. The others head for the Huka jet and a speedboat trip down to the falls complete with spins and twists galore. Meanwhile I decide to throw myself out of an aeroplane with only a big Fijian guy attached to me (sorry mum!). Despite his slightly off putting nickname of 'the Tarmanator', we both land safely from the exhilarating experience of the 12,000 feet drop. The first part of the jump is a freefall for 7,000ft which quite simply feels like flying as you drop through the sky fighting the g-forces in an effort to get a belated thumbs up to the fellow nutcase who is flying around with a video camera. This is followed by the opening of the chute (unless something has gone seriously wrong!) and then floating safely down to the ground and gasping at the spectacular views of Lake Taupo and vast amounts of the surrounding area. Wicked.

What remains of the day is spent back at Shaggy's place knocking up some tea and watching TV - well, we had been out all day!

We are all out early doors on Monday night following a lovely night of the Big Man’s foghorn snoring in order to head down towards the Huka falls. This mass of churning white foam and water on the Waikato river is the first stop of the day and we take a wander along the banks for a while before heading down stream to the dam which is about to open for its two hour lunch time stint. Back in Taupo there is just time before departing for us to have a five way mini golf contest on the lakeshore course. A few very tricky early holes see off some of the competitors early on and in the end I take victory by 6 shots. You have gotta love that!

It takes us four and a half hours to cover the distance between us and New Plymouth. We are quickly beginning to learn that there is no such thing as a major road in the majority of this country. Get ready for some seriously winding roads! On arrival we have the excellent bonus of being able to stay with a long time friend of Dave's family, Gerry, in her house in New Plymouth. We are treated to a nice place to stay and meals at home for the next two days, bonus! We spend a relaxing evening chatting to our host and watching a flick...even if it was 'Road Trip'!

The next day (and I can safely say this is a first for the trip) begins with a home cooked fry-up! Thus well fed, we set off to conquer the nearby Mount Taranacki. The snow-capped peak unfortunately gets more and more covered by cloud the closer we get to it and so we settle for a walk around the lower parts of the national park.

Back at Gerry's we attempt to knock up a roast dinner ready for when she gets back from work. Yeah right, let’s be serious shall we? To be fair, when it is finally ready, mostly thanks to Binnus and the Goatman, we are all absolutely starving. It is pretty good though. More films and kip follow.

On Wednesday it is again time to move on. We are today heading south towards the capital city of Wellington situated at the very bottom of the North Island. We say a big thank you and goodbye to Gerry and head off into town for a quick check of the internet and to collect some photos before setting off. It is a case of most of the day in the car as we cover the distance by around six pm and check into a dodgy hostel called 'Rowena's'. Post super noodles we head to the cinema and watch lots, and lots, and lots of people blow up in the world war two flick, 'Windtalkers'.

So that just about does it for our first week in NZ, Mr Chops will guide you through the next instalment.....what with his directional skills, I don't fancy your chances of making it out of the country!!!